


A different take on Hounds

by CaptainDog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Genderbending, Kissing, dammit sherlock go to sleep, snogging helps her think?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainDog/pseuds/CaptainDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A genderbent twisting of the events of the Hounds of Baskerville.  I didn't bother to change their names.  This was me idly trying to make myself feel better in anticipation of the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A different take on Hounds

John doesn't register what Sherlock is saying for a moment as the consulting detective grips her arm and spins her. The action almost seems to be leading to a kiss. But no. Of course that wouldn't happen with Sherlock of all people. John's probably just seen one too many romantic comedies. She twists out of her grip and says something dismissive about Sherlock's excuse. Experiencing fear and doubt indeed. She starts to walk away.

“John? John!” Sherlock calls after her. John squeezes her eyes shut; she knows that if she _sees_ the hurt evident in Sherlock's voice, she'll lose her nerve. Damn that woman.

“Listen, I meant what I said. I don't have friends.”

John huffs, her anger rising again.

“I only have one.”

Oh. Well fuck. John stops in her tracks and hears Sherlock jogging to her.    
_I'm...her only friend._   


And then she decides that no, this bleeding heart tactic will not work. She is not going to let the madwoman off that easily, not without a proper apology. Not without teaching her a lesson first.

“Right.” she says, and starts walking again. Sherlock follows, talking rapidly. She sounds desperate for forgiveness, or at least attention. She's going on about conductors of light.

“Fine, you've apologised. Don't spoil it.” John allows herself a smirk. Sherlock grins broadly.

“Where were you last night, anyway?”

“Out. Walking. Thinking. Miss me?”

“I should have known.” John doesn't answer Sherlock's question. They walk in silence for a few paces.

“Do you really think I'm your only friend? I mean, what about Lestrade?”

“A colleague.”

“Isn't that what I am?”

Sherlock stops short. “Yes, but...you're more...more than that.”

John nods. “Okay.” She can see how that's true.

“I've never had a friend like you before.” Sherlock continues. “There was Victoire at Uni, but she was...it feels different with you.”

John's genuinely confused now. “How so? Were you and Victoire...” She gestures helplessly.

“You want to know if we had sex.”

John shrugs and nods.

“No. I've never, to use The Man's words, had anyone.”

John swallows hard.

“Um, okay. What's different, then?”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. “Victoire left and I didn't care. And when she was around, I didn't have the same...emotional and physical response. You're...warm, John.”

“Well that's...good, I suppose. Well, not for Victoire. Hang on, you just said you'd care if I left, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“That may be the swee-nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“Is it? It's true, anyway.”

John smiles. She starts walking again, but slower this time so Sherlock knows that she isn't dismissing her. Sherlock keeps stride next to her.

“Aren't you going to ask more about Victoire?” she asks. John raises an eyebrow.

“Should I?”

Sherlock shrugs. “You always want to know about my past, and I've never mentioned her before.”

“You never mention anything about your Uni days unless it's directly related to a case. And you've just said that you didn't care when she left.”

“You wanted to know if I had sex with her.”

John reddens slightly. So she has a bit of a preoccupation. Who wouldn't, living with someone as gorgeous as Sherlock Holmes?

“I just wanted to...assess the situation. See what she meant to you that was different than me.”

“She wanted to. Have sex with me, I mean. I declined, which was one of her reasons for leaving. I couldn't give her the kind of relationship she wanted.”

“Moronic.” John snorts.

“Moronic? For wanting to sleep with me?”

“No!” John clears her throat; she'd almost shouted. “No, I meant...stupid reason to leave you. You're worth more than that.”

Sherlock stops short again. John turns.

“What?”

“That...what you said...thank you.”

John smiles warmly. “You're welcome. I don't say that lightly, you know.”

“I know. I...hold still.”

John holds as still as she can, barely breathing as Sherlock steps closer. She keeps her gaze locked with the taller woman's.

Sherlock raises her hands, as if to grab John's shoulders. She lowers them. Her brow furrows as she raises them again. She places them tentatively over John's arms and steps closer, bringing them inches apart. She leans in.

John feels an almost-panic rise in her chest. Is Sherlock going to kiss her? Embrace her? Does Sherlock even know?

She can feel the heat from Sherlock's face now. Dark curls brush against her forehead, followed by skin. Sherlock closes her eyes as her forehead presses to John's. Their noses brush. She huffs, but John can't interpret the tone.

“Sherlock...”

“Shhh. Just...let me...I need to figure this out.”

John considers asking exactly    
_what_   
Sherlock is trying to figure out, but decides that it's best to keep quiet and let the woman do her thing. Whatever that may be. Sherlock inhales deeply and slowly breathes out, warming John's cheeks. She brings her face closer. Their noses are almost mashed together, their cheeks brushing and their lips only just apart, a few millimeters away and to the side. John    
_aches_   
to close that distance, but knows better. She's just told Sherlock that she deserves to be valued for more than her body; she can't go and let her own stupid lust scare her friend away. Not when she's Sherlock's    
_only_   
friend, one of the few people she trusts.

“John.” Sherlock murmurs in that smooth, low voice. The edge of her cupid's bow lip brushes the side of John's mouth so lightly she almost thinks it's imagined. It makes her want to reach up and itch the spot. She wants to _move_. She brings her hands up slowly, so that she doesn't startle Sherlock, and grips her arms. She starts to push away gently. 

“John?”

John stops the movement.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” she asks. She pulls back enough so that they can meet each other's eyes again.

“Trying to understand...what this feeling is. When you said...that...I needed to touch you. It helps focus my brain and you're so warm that I thought...I needed contact. But I don't know how to do it.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Close your eyes.”

Sherlock obeys. John takes a deep breath to brace herself for what she's about to do. She raises her hands to Sherlock's face, keeps her touch soft. Sherlock's eyelids flicker.

“Keep them closed.”

Her brows furrow as she clenches her eyes shut. John pushes up on the balls of her feet and tilts her head. With a feeling like diving into unknown waters, she presses her lips to Sherlock's.

It is every bit as electric as she's imagined it would be. Better, even, because it's real. She'd expected Sherlock to jump, or push away, but she stays almost perfectly still. Of course, she'd probably been able to tell what was coming. And she hadn't tried to stop John.

It's only simple contact, and it's enough for John. It's not as if she'd ever thought she'd get this far anyway. She tilts her head further to press their lips together more firmly. She wants Sherlock to move, to reciprocate, but doesn't think that's going to happen. She'll pull away in 3, 2, 1...

Sherlock's mouth parts slightly and a puff of warm breath from her nose hits John's cheek. John very carefully opens her mouth and touches her tongue to Sherlock's lip, asking permission. Sherlock parts her lips further. She swipes at her mouth and plunges her tongue in.

She's been concentrating so much on the contact of their faces that John barely realises that Sherlock's hands have moved from her upper arms. One is cupping the back of John's head, feeling the bend of skull and the hair that covers it as her neck cranes to meet Sherlock's impossible height. The other has slipped under John's arm. It's winding its way along John's ribs and to her back. The fingertips catch on the fabric of her jacket.

John's own fingers are still on Sherlock's face. One thumb runs circles on the flesh of her cheek. Fingers travel back to trace an earlobe and the curls that spill over it. If Sherlock weren't skittish, she'd be grabbing that thick hair. As it is, John is content to take this only as far as Sherlock lets it, and only in the direction she wants.

Sherlock presses the lengths of their bodies together. Emboldened, she licks into John's mouth. John can tell she's never done this before, or maybe has deleted it, but she's got the enthusiasm to make up for lack of technique. It doesn't matter. Anyway, she's kissing Sherlock Holmes. As in    
_kissing Sherlock Holmes._

It occurs to John that they should breathe and pulls back a little. Sherlock makes a little “uh!” sound. John pants and looks up at her. The consulting detective's pupils are wide. John's sure that hers can't be any better.

“Um. Okay?” she asks weakly. Sherlock looks a bit stunned, and then her eyes focus.

“Good. Very good. Come on, John.” She brushes past her friend down the path.

“What? Where?”

“The inn. I want to check on something. By the way, what's that paper I felt in your pocket?”

“Wha-oh, this. Yeah, I've been meaning to tell you.” She pulls the slip out of her pocket (her jeans pocket, Sherlock's hands certainly had wandered) and hands it over.

“For a vegetarian establishment, they certainly have a lot of meat.”

“John, that's brilliant!” Sherlock grins widely as she glances at the receipt. “And what do you think they use the meat for? Ah, John, you've given me such focus of mind!”

“Er, okay. How did I do that?”

“That...what you did just now. It helped me to organise my thoughts and clear away unnecessary ones.”

“Oh. Um. Good.” _Snogging helps clear her thoughts?_

*

When they finally stumble back into the room, the only thing on John's mind is sleep. Deep, restful, hound-less sleep. The wear of the evening only just seems to be catching up with her companion. Sherlock's cheekbones stand out in even greater sharpness than usual under her sunken eyes. _Has she even consumed anything in the past two days? Other than coffee and alcohol?_ John lets herself fall onto the mattress with a thump and a sigh, not even bothering to kick her shoes off. She's too tired to pay attention to what Sherlock is up to. She hears the detective bustling around, presumably hanging her coat up and getting ready for bed. The springs on the other small bed creak. The sounds of sheets being pulled back and Sherlock nestling in reach John's ears, and she lets her consciousness drift away, well aware that she'll hate herself for falling asleep like this come morning.

“John.”

“Hnnnn?” John grunts. The fog of her mind lifts a bit, but not all the way.

“I can't sleep.”

John groans dramatically and rolls over to peer at Sherlock through bleary eyes.

“What.”

“I can't sleep. My brain won't shut off.”

“That's too bad. Mine's doing just fine. Good night.”

She rolls over again, squashing her face into a pillow.

“John, please. I'm exhausted, but I just can't get the noise to stop. I don't have any patches.”

 _And what do you expect me to do about it?_   
John tries to say, but since her mouth is mostly full of pillow, it just comes out as some muffled grunts. 

“You always have a solution, John. You always keep me from getting back into my old habits.”

John turns her head to stare dully at Sherlock. “That's because I am diligent in keeping you away from that stuff.”

“But I don't need it so much with you.”

“Are we forgetting the tirade you went on just before Henry called?”

“Oh, come one, I didn't _really_ -”

“Sherlock, you pointed a _harpoon_ at Mrs. Hudson.”

“I wasn't actually intending to-”

“Yes, I _know._ Look, just shut your eyes and count sheep.”

“Count sheep?”

“Yeah. It's what people do when they can't fall asleep.”

“And where am I supposed to-”

John groans loudly and rubs a hand over her face. “They're imaginary sheep, Sherlock. You know what? forget it. Shut your eyes and wait.”

“That never works.”

“Seriously, why are we having this conversation? It's like you just want to be contrary. I'm going to sleep now, and I hope you can at least pretend to.”

John rolls over for the last time, facing the wall and away from Sherlock. Now    
_she_   
is having trouble sleeping, thanks to her infuriating flatmate.    
_Is she still just a flatmate?_   
a voice in John's head provides.    
_You did snog her earlier._

Shit. She'd actually almost forgotten about that in the panic of the night. Of course not completely, because who could? But she hadn't been dwelling on it much since then. Until now, as she was trying to fall asleep.    
_Oh bloody hell._

Sherlock's bed creaks once again, and John opens her mouth to tell the woman to just lie down and close her eyes and fake it if she has to. The words die on her tongue as her own mattress dips under new weight.

John holds her breath for a moment, wondering what's going on. She can feel Sherlock fidgeting next to her, and then a touch at her heel. Sherlock carefully slips one of John's shoes off, and then the other. John lets her, unsure of what to say, if anything. The hands leave momentarily, and Sherlock stays completely still.

There is a light brush of cold fingers on her belly. John inhales at the chill, but otherwise doesn't move. She forces herself to breathe evenly, giving Sherlock permission to continue. The fingers trace downwards to the waistband of her jeans, and undo the button and zip. Another hand comes into play as she hooks her fingers into the waistband and gently ease them off of John's hips. Her knuckles brush the backs of John's legs as she pulls them completely off, making John shudder. Her socks are removed with the jeans.

A hand travels back up her body, a delicate trail from her ankle to her hip. It continues to the bottom of her shirt.

“You really shouldn't sleep with your clothes on.” Sherlock murmurs.

“Well, I've got you to take care of that for me, apparently.” John mutters. Sherlock chuckles and plucks her shirt buttons free, one by one. John's feeling heavy and exhausted, so it's hard for her to lift her arms enough for Sherlock to pull the shirt off her sleeves. She hears it fall somewhere on the floor next to the bed.

She isn't sure what to expect next from Sherlock, but it isn't light fingertips on her shoulder. They trace the messy scar that marks an exit wound. Although her eyes are closed, she can imagine those glasz eyes calculating and mapping, probably deducing the type of gun, the angle of entry, the method of treatment.

Another hand joins Sherlock's attention to John, but it goes straight for her spine, where her bra is clasped. John considers stopping her. The slim fingers undo the clasp, and she feels the elastic contract across her back. She shrugs out of the garment and lets it fall between the bed and the wall. She supposes that tomorrow she'll care that she has to fish it out again.

She shivers, suddenly cold now that she's almost completely naked.

“Covers.” she says, and tries to turn to crawl under. Sherlock's in the way and doesn't seem to want to move.

“Budge up.” John says, pulling harder at the duvet under her companion. She finally looks up at Sherlock's face. It's hard to read in the dim light, but she seems to be staring pretty intently.

“What?”

“Is it...” She frowns deeply and starts over. “Do you mind if I stay here tonight?”

“Only if you don't _move_ so I can get under the covers. I'm cold.”

Sherlock shifts obligingly. John slides under and waits. Sherlock hesitates before slipping under as well. John smiles to herself, not caring if Sherlock sees. The bed is very small.

Sherlock sidles up behind John, pressing into her from chest to hips. Her long legs curl behind John's. Her had wraps around and presses against her belly. John can feel her t-shirt clad chest pressing against her shoulder blades, the material thin enough for John to know for certain that Sherlock is not wearing a bra, and may be a bit cold. Her breath is hot and smells of coffee as it warms the back of John's neck. The breaths are even.

“Um. Better?” John asks, convinced that, exhausted as she is, she will never sleep now.

“Mm.” Sherlock rumbles.

They lie for a while, their breathing the only sound. Sherlock's is steadier than John's, and getting gradually slower. John isn't sure if she wants to sleep now, even if she can manage it. She doesn't want to lose this moment, when Sherlock's hand is on her skin and their bodies are pressed together and Sherlock's toes brush the sole of her foot if one of them fidgets. John relaxes. It is comfortable. It feels as if their bodies were formed to fit together this way. John just wishes that she could wrap her arms around Sherlock. _Maybe next time..._

She stops that train of thought. This may be a one-time thing. Who knows with Sherlock Holmes?

“Stop worrying.” Sherlock whispers into her ear. “It's lovely and quiet otherwise.”

John inhales sharply and her breath stutters as she lets it out again. She can't hold in a small yelp as Sherlock's hand travels up to her breast and cups it. Her fingers brush over the nipple.

“Jesus, Sherlock. We're supposed to be sleeping.”

There's a warm, wet feeling on the back of John's neck where Sherlock kisses her. The kisses continue down her shoulder and back to the scar. She traces the edges with her tongue. John's soft gasp turns into a chuckle.

“Maybe I have fallen asleep, and I'm just dreaming.” she muses. Sherlock rolls her nipple between firm fingers and the sensation makes John buck backwards. Okay, not dreaming. Definitely not dreaming.

Sherlock nuzzles her nose into John's neck. Her mouth opens and John feels the light touch of teeth, but no actual biting. The wet tongue probes at her skin.

“Seriously, Sherlock-”

“Sorry, I got a bit carried away.”

“Try to sleep. I'll help if I can, but really what you're doing is only going to keep us awake.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment, her lips resting on John's shoulder.

“Will you kiss me again?” she asks.

“If I do, will you sleep?” John feels Sherlock nod against her back. She twists and jostles until she's facing Sherlock. The taller woman's eyes are pale and almost luminous in the dark. It reminds John a little of the recently solved case. She wonders idly how likely it would be if jellyfish DNA had been infused with Sherlock's.

Sherlock looks at her expectantly, and suddenly John is nervous. She's not even sure why, but she has no idea how to initiate this. Sherlock's brows furrow.

“If you don't want to-” Sherlock's words break John out of her self-conscious panic.

“Oh, shut up, you idiot woman.” she says and all but smashes her lips to Sherlock's. She winds a hand around her thin waist, pushing up the t-shirt to feel the smooth skin beneath. As unromantic as it sounds, it reminds John of mozzarella cheese; creamy and white and so tempting to sink teeth into. She presses her fingertips into the tense muscles of Sherlock's back while she works her tongue between her lips.

Sherlock lets out a soft moan, the kind usually reserved for revelations brought about by nicotine patches. Her body all but melts into John's. She wraps their legs together and clings to John as if for dear life. She kisses as if it's the only thing keeping her in the physical world. They break apart to gasp and pant.

“Okay?” John asks, an echo of earlier that day. Sherlock smiles and lets herself be kissed on the nose, and then softly on the lips.

“Sleep.” John whispers. Her own eyelids are already drooping. She keeps herself awake long enough to hear Sherlock's breathing deepen and steady. Sleep is a welcome blanket that wraps warmly around them both.


End file.
